rybody knows him. He has faults and
virtues, and sometimes they get so mixed up that "you cannot tell one
from t'other."

He is erratic and often queer. He believes, with Emerson, that "with
consistency a great soul has nothing to do." And he is, of course, "a
great soul." Logical, isn't it?

The average man _thinks_ that he is a born genius at love-making.
Henders, in _The Professor's Love Story_, states it thus:

"Effie, ye ken there are some men ha' a power o'er women....
They're what ye might call 'dead shots.' Ye canna deny,
Effie, that I'm one o' those men!"

Even though a man may be obliged to admit, in strict confidence
between himself and his mirror, that he is not at all handsome,
nevertheless he is certain that he has some occult influence over that
strange, mystifying, and altogether unreasonable organ--a woman's
heart.

The real man is conceited. Of course you are not, dear masculine
reader, for you are one of the bright particular exceptions, but all
of your men friends are conceited--aren't they?

And then he makes fun of his women folks because they spend so much
time in front of the mirror in arranging hats and veils. But when a
high wind comes up and disarranges coiffures and chapeaux alike, he
takes "my ladye fair" into some obscure corner, and saying, "Pardon
me, but your hat isn't quite straight," he will deftly restore that
piece of millinery to its pristine position. That's nice of him, isn't
it? He does very nice things quite often, this real man.

He says women are fickle. So they are, but men are fickle too, and
will forget all about the absent sweetheart while contemplating the
pretty girls in the street. For while "absence makes the heart grow
fonder" in the case of a woman, it is presence that plays the mischief
with a man, and Miss Beauty present has a very unfair advantage over
Miss Sweetheart absent.

The average man thinks he is a connoisseur of feminine attractiveness.
He thinks he has tact, too, but there never was a man who was blessed
with much of this valuable commodity. Still, as that is a favourite
delusion with so large a majority of the human race, the conceit of
the ordinary masculine individual ought not to be censured too
strongly.

The real man is quite an expert at flattery. Every girl he meets, if
she is at all attractive, is considered the most charming lady that he
ever knew. He is sure she isn't prudish enough to refuse him a kiss,
and if she